


Through The Eyes

by Catticus42



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 06:03:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13734690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catticus42/pseuds/Catticus42
Summary: Set before the Five had just formed, in the Early days of Oxford when Helen Magnus and Nikola Tesla first met on that unforgettable Autumn day.  For Perceptions hold the keys to understanding ones perspective of a single moment. But what if the story was told from all five who happened to observe the same event, Witnessing two lonely individuals brought together by something more then chance and bonded by something stronger then fate. Told through the Eyes of those special five, who pushed the boundaries of science and became more then just names of the past.





	1. Through the Eyes of an Invisible Individual

Through the Eyes of an Invisible individual

 

I was awakened by the bitter welcome of the frozen morning while my cold limbs ached in their attempt to reach Oxford University.  
Not that England was the epitome of warmth. But it was autumn, not the middle of winter for God sakes. Could a man not request for a bit of sunshine, now and then between the gloomy skies.                                                                                                   
I looked up to the heavens expectantly, hopping for the golden rays of the sun. Only to meet.  
Nothing.  
But stoic white and livid grey.  
Alright I thought, feeling rather optimistic as I saw the grand sandstone building appear before me, How about a hint of blue.  
Again nothing.  
Now becoming rather desperate I hoped for anything, anything at all, that separated itself from the endless fog of murky white.  
Nothing.  
I sighed in defeat evidently my request had fell short in its transcendence to the higher powers, or more than likely, rejected upon its arrival.  
It seemed even the Lord held grudges. He never had forgiven me for nicking that elderly gentleman’s fob watch in my adventurous if not somewhat troubled youth.  
What could I say I was a thief? While my career was short. Granted only a pocket watch. However despite that minor detail I had acquired a name for myself, the unseen man. Because I was so stealthy he only saw the Fob Watches golden chain hanging uselessly from his coat.  
Mischief was my only real source of entertainment you see. And besides he could barely even read the thing let alone use it, so really in an unprincipled way I did him a favour.  
The man upstairs however refused to see it that way, so unsurprisingly the sky remained as motionless as stone. Painted with a frigid expression, stormy clouds only differed by a darker shade of grey.  
Oh well I supposed, wandering into the quiet hallway.  
Then something caught my eye, to be more accurate someone.  
A woman. Adorned in red, wandered past me into the open grounds.  
I was shocked. Surely she must be one of the professor’s wives or even one the students. For women rarely ventured inside Oxfords walls.  
But she did not have the air of a married women, she held herself with such confidence that told you she belonged to no one but herself. And dared anyone to argue. A rare quality in a woman.  
Blonde curls cascaded down her back as she made her way towards the old oak tree, book clasped firmly in her hands and a determined expression etched upon her beautiful face that spoke of intelligence beyond her years.  
Although the dress hardly went unnoticed as many of the young and old gentlemen’s heads were turned with the same shock as I was sure my own face bared. But it was not her attire that instigated such a commotion. It was the simple fact that she was a woman. One who it seemed to have had taken it upon herself to study not French needlepoint or the fine art of gossip in which ladies seemed to fancy. But higher pursuits of the mind. At Oxford no less. One of the most established Universities in the world.  
It was astonishing. It was a scandal.  
Things were going to become very interesting indeed.  
My eyes tracked her progress as she made her way towards the oak tree as Classes had not yet began. I heard the men gossiping in her wake with a combination of shock, hostility and unreserved distaste.  
“A women cannot study here it’s ….. Why it’s unconventional”  
“I concur”  
“It’s a disgrace”  
“The board can’t be serious in letting a woman study here at oxford”  
“I heard that her father managed to convince them to let her attend classes”  
“This is an outrage”  
I was sure the she heard them but simply gave no credence to their words. She passed them with a grace that all women could only hope to achieve and would envy to possess.  
Every man seemed to have the same reaction, hostility that devolved into mockery. An outlandish notion that quickly became contagious amongst the studious and morons alike. Like a disease it spread deadly and incurable. Infecting all.  
However I admired the lass for going against the establishment, she was bolder then I. Bolder then most.

She was not quite alone in that category. As a particular student also shared a similar situation. A man who was not as scandalous as the women, still entertained ridicule in his own right.  
A foreigner.  
You could tell that merely from his temperament, let alone his Accent and he was damn well proud of it too. His name I recalled was Tesla. Nikola Tesla. Brilliant but his arrogance could drive you to the brink of insanity. He possessed no tact in the fragile art of conversation and seemed to believe quite strongly in equality. He disrespected everyone equally.  
But to my utter surprise neither a sneer nor an unkind remark uttered from his sharp tongue. As she approached the tree where he was sitting feeding those horrid pigeons. It seemed that the birds were the only thing he related to, or showed any compassion for. But perhaps I wondered he may find another. Moving out towards the gardens to my usual spot near the roses I watched them from behind the almost strategically placed rose bush.  
He looked at her with unguarded awe, an expression I had yet to have seen another person evoke from him.  
I smiled it seemed that beauty had met the beast. And the beast didn’t know what to think of her. Come to think of it we all didn’t.


	2. Through the Eyes of an Immortal Inventor

Through the eyes of an immortal inventor 

The icy wind gently stirred the old oak tree. Its vast branches infinitely complex from where it stood towering above me.   
Amber leaves tinted with gold fluttered slowly to the ground.   
Now free.   
Free from the toils of life,   
Its beauty and its pain.   
Now to meet its final end, embraced by the solace of death.   
Since when had I become so poetic? I wondered as the pigeons paced restlessly, cooing gently amongst each other. I tossed breadcrumbs from a brown paper bag as I sat against the ancient oak.   
Class still had thirty nine minutes and forty seven seconds before it began and students wandered past engaging in futile attempts of idle conversation amongst themselves, so lost within the depths of their dreary lives.   
How one could pity them… But then one would have to waste said pity.   
I heard them whisper vile lies. Their barbs sharpened with me in mind, failed to be witty, only to be accompanied by thinly veiled insults that barley registered. Although I am sure mine had a longer lasting effect with the looks I received.   
Which was probably why I was despised by, not only my fellow students, but my professors as well. As they, despite years of experience, seemed to slip on the most basic of concepts. So naturally I thought it apt to assist, not only for the benefit of my fellow students who endured these tedious lectures, but also because my ears could not tolerate their utter incompetence.   
But no matter how much they hated me and my valuable contributions, or should I say corrections, at the end of the day… I was still right.   
For being a foreigner, and an intellectually gifted one at that, I was shunned and excluded. No one spoke to me unless to provoke anger, or degrade my country. I was different. Strange. And I would never be anything else.   
Good, I thought, I would hate to suffer in the inferiority of their company. For I doubt a single one of them could offer a decent conversation let alone an intellectual one.   
But deep down it……  
It hurt.   
It hurt to be loathed. To be despised without reason. So I gave them one.   
I learned to keep my distance, to guard myself behind my cold indifference, my harsh criticism. Because the pain of being vulnerable was unbearable.   
Why could people not be more like pigeons or doves?   
Gentle and benign beings whose behaviour was driven by an instinctual pattern, you always knew where you stood with them. They never lied, they never insulted your intelligence with their nonsense or sentimental ideology.   
Whereas people… People were inconsistent, driven by chaotic emotions rather than the simplicity of instinct or intuition.   
I gazed fondly at the small grey birds, dappled with brown and white.   
“Yes my feathered friends, I know,” I cooed back softly.   
At Oxford I had no one.  
No one, besides the pigeons.   
But sometimes against my will, I often wondered what it would be like to have… someone.   
Someone I could discus scientific theories with, without having them stare at me with confusion, or nod absentmindedly like they understood every word but really they hoped to discourage you from speech.   
The sound of footsteps stirred me from my revere as they crunched softly on the autumn leaves, approaching the oak tree.   
I turned my head to locate the source of this disturbance and was surprised to find a woman walking straight towards me.   
She was dressed in a deep crimson that complemented her creamy white complexion and wavy blond curls that wandered down her back.   
But it was her startling blue eyes that captured my attention, as they were not only just as beautiful as she was, but were alive with intelligence and driven by a quest for knowledge that only very few possessed.   
A woman at Oxford! Now, there was a first.  
I could barely contain my surprise behind, what I hoped to be, a neutral expression.   
I glanced away as she neared my small piece of home within Oxford’s lonely walls, throwing more crumbs to the pigeons. A wave of apprehensive and uncertainty washed over my body. Feelings I was not acquainted with, nor did I want to be.   
But I was betrayed, my own emotions beyond my control, as she stood before me, a small smile gracing her gentle features.   
“Excuse me but may I join you?” She enquired. Her voice portrayed her to be calm and collected but those deep blue eyes were troubled, as if weary that I would reject her request. In that instant all I wanted to do was reassure her. Strange, I never felt the need to reassure anyone, but for once I pushed those thoughts aside and let the emotion guide my actions.   
“Of course,” I replied, my Serbian accent rolling thickly from my tongue. That warm feeling suddenly turned to dread, as she would inevitably recoil from me as soon as she heard my voice.   
As most people did.   
What could I expect? Foreigners were rarely accepted and I supposed her English upbringing would demand nothing less.   
I could expect nothing less.   
But this woman did something people rarely did.   
She proved me wrong.   
Well, I thought, it had to happen eventually.   
Just this was so unexpected. And pleasantly so.   
“Thank you,” she smiled “Mr…..”   
”Tesla,” I replied “Nikola tesla.”  
“Mr Tesla. A pleasure.”   
“The pleasure is mine I am sure miss….” I stated as she sat down at a respectable distance away from me. My Apprehension lessened.   
“Magnus. Helen Magnus,” she responded with pride that did not transcend into arrogance but merely demonstrated an air of confidence that demanded respect.   
Helen Magnus… so that was her name. I normally didn’t care for people’s names, or their lives in general, but she was not just anybody. Nor did I see her as such.   
“Miss Magnus,” I whispered softly.   
She smiled at me in response and I found I rather liked when she did. Smiling genuinely in return.   
She held my gaze for a moment, then her eyes left mine, lingering upon her book that had been clasped within her hands.   
It read in elaborate gold writing: ON THE ORGIN OF SPECIES BY CHARLES DARWIN. She opened the leather bound book revealing creamy white pages that danced hypnotically as she flicked to the page marked by a single dried rose.   
Most men would struggle to spell the word ‘species’ let alone contemplate Darwin’s Theory of Evolution, and yet Miss Magnus was drinking in his words, so lost in the depths of this scientific treasure.   
I was astonished. This woman was truly remarkable. And I never said that about anyone.  
Never.   
My eyes were drawn towards her lips as she mouthed the words. As if each one held a key to what she was so desperate to find.   
I turned away in embarrassment. It was hardly appropriate to stare at a women, let alone her lips. Throwing more crumbs to the pigeons we sat together in companionable silence. The only sound that could be heard was the soft coo of my beloved birds.   
But after 10 minutes of unsuccessfully engaging my mind in the normally riveting concepts of inventing modifications to enhance a number of contraptions I had mentally devised, (Since they had yet to be transferred to paper), I found myself wanting to break the peaceful silence.   
For my interest lied not there but wandered towards Miss Magnus, drawn like a magnet, a pebble pulled by the irresistible force that was the tide. My common sense rejected this... whatever it was, completely.  
But my incurable fascination ignored my mental protests and would not allow my thoughts to drift elsewhere.   
I wanted to talk to her. To hear her voice, to make her smile. Even just for her eyes to look into mine.   
I brushed those thoughts away and composed myself, locking them away in the systematic vaults of my mind.   
Fanciful notions that made no sense.  
Yet as I stole a glance at the woman before me, I felt a pang of regret for not acting upon them.   
My eyes lingered upon her perfect form and slowly drifted away once again, simply to rest on my surroundings. Yet everything became vacant, dull even.   
Everything except the vast space that was my emotionally driven thoughts. I sat there, lost, meditating on the very prospect of interrupting her intense analysis of the splendour of Darwin’s work and engaging in a conversation.   
I pondered whether a subtle word or blatant statement was suitable, either way it presented a means to gain her attention. However it seemed I was too late to act.   
A polite and rather endearing chuckle emitted from the woman sitting across from me. And I instantly knew that Darwin was not the cause of this rather sudden outburst.   
I stared in her direction to find the source of her amusement and found one of my pigeons, who had took it upon herself to pull at the threads of Miss Magnus’s dress.   
“If you are after food, I believe I will only disappoint you,” she addressed the pigeon softly, with a touch of humour. “I believe Mr Tesla is the one you should address.”   
„Zasto se biju,” (Why you little devil) I exclaimed in Serbian at the rather unapologetic bird who paused briefly, only to continue along its merry way.   
“Your pigeons are rather sociable towards people,” she stated, her lips twitching in amusement.   
“I find they are only sociable if you have food,” I replied.   
“Ah, I understand; A powerful source of motivation,” She teased.   
“Well apparently my debonair charm could not win them over, so food was the only alternative.”   
“Indeed, your modesty becomes you so well I do not know how they could resist.”   
Intelligent and quick witted. My, my… her attributes never failed to impress.   
“One of the more unfortunate mysteries of the universe, don’t you agree?” I responded, grinning.   
She merely rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed by my comment, but her lips tugged into a smile that disappeared as she hid its charm behind her words.   
“How we are ever most unfortunate in its ability to elude us,” She stated dryly, but her eyes spoke otherwise, shining as we continued our verbal sparring.   
“Perhaps one day we shall find the answer” I quipped rising to her challenge.   
“Yes perhaps,” She smiled with amusement, “but not today, I’m afraid.”   
“Be still my Serbian heart, for the lady has outwitted me in the battle that is conversation.”   
“I assume you withdraw in our game of wits?”   
“Miss Magnus, there is one thing you must know about me,” I whispered softly, moving closer, my eyes locked on hers to show her the full depth of my meaning. “I never give up.”  
“Oh really?” She enquired with fake astonishment. “I never would have guessed.”   
Her sarcasm was hardly contained behind the pleasantries of that remark, so I continued to entertain her.  
“Well I am glad to have relieved you of your depravation, and I demand a rematch,” I declared with all the dramatics I could muster.   
“Well then, Mr Tesla, I humbly accept,” she laughed.


	3. Through the Eyes of an Ingenious Detective

Through the eyes of an Ingenious Detective 

Time… It was a fragile thing really. We all live within it, taking it for granted, and missing it once our time has come to an end.   
It was elementary I supposed, that our time is relative. Our existence brief. But that’s what made it so infinitely more precious.   
“James, old boy,” greeted a deep, familiar voice that broke my train of thought.   
“John,” I replied turning to face my dear friend who approached me as I walked through Oxford’s grounds.   
“You seem unfocused James. Did I disrupt another one of your reflections upon life’s many untold secrets?” John remarked good naturedly.   
“No. If you had, you would never hear the end of it, I’m afraid, dear chap,” I responded dryly.   
“Good, as your appeasement is to my own advantage I am sure,” He replied, laughing heartily.   
“Yes indeed it is.”   
John responded to my comment, no doubt with some witty remark, but my attention was focused elsewhere. A young Woman dressed in a rather striking red was sitting underneath the old Oak tree.  
I had heard that the Great Gregory Magnus had managed to convince the Board to let a woman study at Oxford. This, I observed, must be his daughter, for surely no other woman besides the child bearing his name would have possibly convinced him otherwise to sway the Board to accept such an unorthodox proposal.   
More surprising still, she was sitting next to the pompous Serb, of her own volition, seeming to be in deep conversation. And enjoying his company. How queer...   
What an interesting turn of events.  
“It seems, I have again lost the perceptive mind of James Watson. I …” John paused.   
I looked towards him and traced the direction of his gaze to where mine had been. Fixed upon the young woman and the Serbian. Although, from the far away expression etched upon his face I was absolutely positive that his focus resided with the woman, not her rather obnoxious companion.   
“And you said I was easily distracted,” I remarked   
“Who is she?” he enquired softly, ignoring my jibe.   
“That is Gregory Magnus’s daughter, so therefore, I presume Miss Magnus”   
“Your powers of deduction astound me James.”   
“Well at least I apply them. Yours, dear chap, are a lost cause.”   
“Well played, Old boy,” John retorted.   
I smirked in return, “Well It seems to me that you are the one who is dazed, although the mystery of why is hardly one of life’s untold secrets,” I turned to face in the direction of the oak tree.   
John laughed “Will it ever be possible to evade the scrutiny of your observation?”   
“Oh you can try, dear chap, you can try.”   
I watched the two under the tree, they seemed so natural with each other, and she must have been intelligent to keep her own against Tesla’s wicked tongue and course disposition. But never the less she seemed to be utterly enchanted by him.  
How strange.   
And his usually guarded admiration which was never won by anyone but himself, was so evidently bestowed upon her. I continued to watch with fascination and was about to ask John on his opinion of the matter, but his face spoke his mind.   
His eyes, like daggers, aimed at the Serbian who made Miss Magnus smile and laugh with ease.   
“Ah it seems you have competition. Tesla seems to be making quite the impression on her, and he is almost charming,” I quipped light heartedly.   
“Quite, but impressions are fickle things James and Mr Tesla merely has to step into a lecture to demonstrate how charming he really is,” he responded, tone deepening with a sharp edge.   
“Really, John. Jealousy is beneath you,” I exclaimed trying to bring him back to reality.   
“Indeed James, you are right, I have forgotten my manners. Forgive me old boy. I just can’t stand that abhorrent man,” John replied looking at me with sincerity.   
“I understand, old chap, and you never needed my forgiveness. For I agree he rather does have a tendency to make one detest him, doesn’t he?”   
“I could not agree more James, I could not agree more.”   
As we walked away I contemplated this situation in which we had inevitably found ourselves within. Miss Magnus really was beautiful and I could see my friend’s immediate attachment despite the absence of proper introductions. It seemed Tesla was just as enamoured, although one could never be too sure with the Serbian. Either way I saw this as a beginning of a conflict. And as for Miss Magnus, she would inevitably find herself caught in the middle.


	4. Through the Eyes of a Teleporting Psychopath

Through the eyes of a Teleporting Psychopath 

It was cold. So cold I think I would have frozen if not for my long woollen jacket. Why is it in times like these we miss the warmth of summer, yet we plead for the cool winds of winter when the sun bears its golden head announcing the change of the seasons?  
I contemplated on this as I walked through Oxford’s grounds hoping to meet James on my way to the Lecture hall.  
Where, for God’s sake, was that Man? I thought, frustration seeping through the cracks of my otherwise cheerful disposition. It’s not like I hadn’t encountered difficulties finding him before, with his uncanny ability to wonder through the university, guided by his thoughts rather than his eyes, it would seem. Yet one could never doubt his powers of observation  
After a few minutes of searching through the sea of heads, I located James walking through the grounds, a wistful expression fixed upon his face.  
“James, old boy,” I greeted warmly as I walked towards him.  
“John,” He replied as he turned to greet me in kind shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts and come back from the depths of his restless mind to the realm of reality.  
“You seem unfocused, James. Did I disrupt another one of your reflections upon life’s many untold secrets?” I enquired in a light and airy tone, with a smirk.  
“No. If you had, you would never hear the end of it, I’m afraid, dear chap,” He responded dryly, his eyes narrowing slightly but otherwise amused.  
“Good, as your appeasement is to my own advantage, I am sure,” I laughed.  
“Yes indeed it is.”  
“Careful James, that sounded almost threatening” I jibed, yet I obtained no response from James, for his attention seemed to be elsewhere yet again. I sighed in defeat.  
“It seems, I have again lost the perceptive mind of James Watson. I …” My sentence remained unfinished as my eyes rested upon the image which had distracted my friend. A woman was sitting under the oak tree, dressed in a dark red that contrasted so brilliantly with the ground bellow. Her beauty radiated like a halo, a beacon that called to me and I found myself like a wayward sailor unable to refuse this sirens song.  
But to my distaste, I came to notice she was not alone, for in her company was that arrogant Serb, Tesla. However; I found his presence a mild disturbance that hardly mattered, as I continued to watch her.  
“And you said I was easily distracted,” James stated, his voice drawing me out of my own thoughts.  
“Who is she?” I whispered softly, ignoring his friendly jibe.  
“That is Gregory Magnus’s daughter, so therefore, I presume Miss Magnus.”  
“Your powers of deduction astound me, James.” I replied dryly.  
“Well at least I apply them. Yours, dear chap, are a lost cause.” He remarked in a withering tone.  
“Well played, old boy,”  
James merely smirked in return to my comment and continued our exchange of witty barbs. “Well It seems to me that you are the one who is dazed, although the mystery of why is hardly one of life’s untold secrets,” He turned his head, facing in the direction of the oak tree.  
“Will it ever be possible to evade the scrutiny of your observation?” I laughed, knowing full well what he meant and slightly annoyed that he caught on so fast.  
“Oh you can try, dear chap, you can try.” He replied, while looking back towards the source that had captured our attention.  
While my eyes were captivated by Miss Magnus, I could not help staring at her companion, except instead of enchantment, I felt only hate and disgust towards him. The way he charmed her so easily, bathing in her attentions. And it seemed she, also, was enchanted by him. As he made her laugh and smile with no effort at all, their conversation seeming to flow like a never-ending stream. I hated the sight of them together, it sickened me to see her so happy in his company.  
Everyone else hated him, why didn’t she? I thought darkly. Everyone saw him for the obnoxious snake he was, everyone except her. Envy turned to rage, a searing anger burned within me, that he could have fooled her, obscuring the truth of his monstrous nature. I felt compelled to protect her from the likes of him.  
“Ah it seems you have competition. Tesla seems to be making quite the impression on her, and he is almost charming,” James quipped, his tone light-hearted but I found myself not in the mood for his attempt at witty banter.  
Because I realised what he said was true.  
He had made an impression on her, that was clear, but her attachment was nothing more then a fleeting fancy from a chance meeting, I thought bitterly.  
“Quite, but impressions are fickle things, James, and Mr Tesla merely has to step into a lecture to demonstrate how charming he really is,” I replied, darkly.  
“Really, John. Jealousy is beneath you,” James exclaimed and my anger subsided somewhat, feeling slightly ashamed by my ungentlemanly behaviour.  
“Indeed James, you are right, I have forgotten my manners. Forgive me, old boy. I just can’t stand that abhorrent man.”  
“I understand, old chap, and you never needed my forgiveness. For I agree, he rather does have a tendency to make one detest him, doesn’t he?”  
“I could not agree more James, I could not agree more.” I replied, as we walked away.  
My eyes staring at Miss Magnus once again, dwelling upon the realisation that I would never forget her face and I would be damned if Mr Tesla robbed me of her.  
No, I would introduce myself to her very soon and make my affections known, as any gentlemen would. For she deserved no less and he deserved nothing more. In the end Tesla would be a distant memory of a pleasant encounter with a stranger, a friend perhaps, but ultimately nothing more.


	5. Through the Eyes of Helen Magnus

My eye’s fluttered open as the cold, morning light streamed through my bedroom window. Though, despite Shakespeare’s pathetic fallacies, my mood was not reflected by the darkness of the clouds.

Pushing away the blankets, I moved quickly out of the warmth of my bed. Shivers ran up my spine as my bare feet made contact with the cold wooden boards. The dying embers of last night’s fire lay burning in the fireplace, a pale orange that flickered weakly until it, too, was gone. Nothing but dust of ashen grey.

Well that presents a rather unfortunate inconvenience, I mused, as the warmth of the fire had long departed. Changing from my nightgown was going to be rather unpleasant, the cold already seeping into my bones. But as father always said, life isn’t about your own accommodation, I reminded myself, despite the protests of my extremities which were not as moved by my father’s philosophe.

Autumn was normally cold at the best of times, but it seemed to summon the frozen temperament of ice, as though winter’s reign had begun prematurely, much to the chagrin of England’s inhabitants, I am sure.

Walking towards my wardrobe, I pondered how the day would unfold. Father had already managed to convince the board at Oxford University to allow me admission to attend classes. But their consent, did not mean they were delighted in having woman pursuing an education that was higher then what men deemed fit for their opposing gender. So, naturally, I hardly expected my presence there to be welcomed. It was rather scandalous after all. A woman attending Oxford?! The nerve! But I, unlike so many, was not blind in acceptance in regards to women’s social obligations, but was rather struck by the burning question of why. Why was a woman considered inferior in intellect compared to a man? Yet the answers I received were very lacking and inadequate, despite the supposed intellect of their respective owners.

Contemplating this notion, I absentmindedly began to push through the abundance of black dresses that seemed to fill the small confines of my wardrobe, hoping that some colour would aid in my pursuit of enlightenment.

How does one define intellect? Is it the ability to merely obtain knowledge or is it simply a matter of applying it when the occasion arises? For a man it is a balance of both discipline in learning and execution of one’s knowledge. They possessed the intellect, they were allowed to advance themselves to study at prestigious universities. However for a woman, we were not.

Therefore, I concluded, it seems to me that intellect is not measured simply by these means, but rather what gender you came to possess. As expected, I came to this conclusion with the bitter resentment it so rightly deserved.

My Father was the only man who saw me as an equal in matters such as this. I smiled to myself, hoping that I would make him proud in my time at Oxford, forever thankful that he provided me the means to attend. My smile disappeared as I drew my attention back to my wardrobe, fingers gently pushing back the sea of blacks and blues until a sleeve of dark red caught my eye. The fabric was soft and worn from years of use yet it did not detract from its beauty.

The dress was my mother’s. A sense of nostalgia tugged at my heart whenever I thought of her. She had passed away when I was very young. A part of me still felt robbed of our time together, as it seemed my memories of her were slipping further away. When I was twelve I used to stare at the small portrait of her in my father’s office for hours committing her image to memory and trying desperately to hold onto those precious times when she was with us. Father had caught me staring at the portrait and eventually gave it to me despite my protests. Saying that she would have wanted me to have it.

“But,” I asked, “How you will remember her?”

“That is very simple my child, all I have to do is look at you” He whispered softly, that kindness and love filling his eyes. Even now it was still the greatest compliment my father had ever given me. And the greatest gift, until Oxford.

I turned to see the portrait sitting on my drawer. My mother’s face smiling up at me, wearing the same dress I now held. My Father told me, many times, how my Mother had never sought to blend within the crowd; she had always found it liberating to seek her own means rather than appease the aristocracy of society. And, I found, so did I. Pulling the dress from my wardrobe, I scarcely thought of the attention it would surely provoke when I arrived at Oxford and nor did I find the inclination to care.

                                        *************************************************************************************

 

I gazed into the mirror, my reflection staring back at me with a seemingly calm expression that was held only by a thread, as apprehension began to sink its poison into my mind. It welled up inside me, threatening to consume my sense of reason with its seemingly infallible logic.

 _“You know you’re not welcome at Oxford,”_ it whispered, _“so why try Helen?”_

 _“Why try to be part of something you will never be respected or commended for?”_ I bit my lip as its words formed inside my head.

“A women Doctor?” it sneered.

_“You think they will ever accept you?”_

“ _Your dreams of something more are just simply that …. Dreams.”_

No, I thought trying to fight it, to conquer these poisonous lies.

_"A senseless fantasy"._

You’re wrong.

_"For where can a Woman belong in a world of intellect?_

_A world of science?_

_A world of Medicine?_

_A world of Men?_

Its sharp words stung, and my appearance of calm almost shattered. But my resolve was stronger.

I scolded myself internally for being so susceptible to the approval, or rather disapproval, of others. For I had the only approval I would ever need besides my own. My Father’s.

These thoughts were not of my own making, merely a projection of everyone who disregarded my endeavour to pursue an education that went beyond the borders of French needle point and etiquette. I shivered at the thought. With that act of mental defiance, I ventured out of my bedroom, silencing those lingering thoughts of doubt. I would attend Oxford whether anyone cared for the notion or not.

My hand trailed down the wooden railing as I descended the staircase with carefully calculated steps that I had learned as a child, mastering the ability to avoid stimulating a sound from the old wooden stairs, which echoed throughout the house. I made my way to my Father’s study and despite the stealth I tried so hard to maintain, my presence was immediately announced by the screech of the old hinges that supported the study door, its voice creaking with age.

“Come in Helen,” my Father beckoned, sitting in his favourite armchair, a book in hand.

“Morning Father.”

“Morning, My Dear. I ……” he paused staring at me with distant eyes, as if reminiscing on a memory lost within the depths of time.

“Father, are you alright?” I inquired, concern evident within my tone.

“I remember the first day she wore that dress,” my Father whispered, a faint smile spread across is wizened features.

I smiled sadly at him, we both missed my mother but my father was afflicted the most by our loss, her death, for him, was not just the pain of losing the woman he loved but the knowledge that his life would go on without her.

“She would have been very proud of you Helen, very proud, just as I am. My own daughter going to Oxford” he shook his head smiling.

“Thank you, Father, for everything.” I replied as he stood to take my hands in his, patting them comfortingly, his eyes glistening with pride.

“It was my greatest pleasure my dear. Besides, your incurable curiosity and intellect could not be sated let alone challenged, with me schooling you”.

“Though that might be, I am sure there is no greater teacher at Oxford then you Father.”

“I can, at least, take credit on my part to have taught you the art of flattery.”

“Of course, where else would I have learnt the principles in which define eloquent conversation?” I laughed.

“However my comment was not flattery, but rather the unguarded truth.”

“Now, I can honestly say the apprentice has surpassed the master, and yet, despite its truth, I find no solace nor piece of mind in being outwitted by my own daughter!” He cried in fake exasperation.

“Ah, in conversation perhaps, but in wisdom, Father, I have yet to become your equal,” I replied

“Helen, you are already so knowledgeable in your youth, but wisdom and knowledge are two different things. For with wisdom comes experience and with experience can come wonder, and happiness. But also hardship and pain. That is why we live each day and embrace each moment, otherwise we fail to see the beauty within the bitterness.”

I always loved my father’s uncanny ability to devise a philosophy regarding life from mere conversation. For some it was merely sentimental words, but to me it was inspiring and allowed me to understand something rather than simply acknowledge its existence.

“I promise to keep that in mind,” I responded as he released my hands, nodding in acceptance, which had not quite transformed into approval, and sat back down in his chair.

“That’s what I was afraid of my dear.” he replied.

I bit down a retort and walked towards the bookshelves, my eyes spellbound by the leather spines, each containing a gateway to knowledge. For my father it was his pleasure. For me it was more than just the pleasure of reading, it was an escape, an adventure that allowed me to further develop my understanding. My fingers brushed against the texts until I found a dark, green, leather-bound manuscript. Pulling it from the shelf, I saw the familiar words of ON THE ORIGINS OF SPECIES, in which I had already begun to read, the page still marked by a single, dried rose.

I found comfort within the words; the theory of evolution was ridiculed, as people could not fathom its possibility, or more likely did not want to accept its potential to be true. Many considered Darwin’s book to be a provocative, dangerous piece of literature as it defied the work of God, but to me it was more a promise of changing perspective, challenging views that had been dominated by centuries of tradition.

“Helen.” I was stirred from my revere to see my father calling me from the study window. I was so immersed within my own thoughts to have noticed Father leave the quiet confines of his chair.

“I believe your carriage has arrived, my dear.”

“It appears so,” I replied, seeing its distinct form from the window.

“Are you ready Helen?” He asked seriously, his tone establishing more to the meaning of his question then just the words, themselves.

“I am no more ready then I ever was, but that, in itself, shall not prevent me from going.”

“I would expect no less of an answer, and can wish for no more than your honesty,” He replied softly, offering his arm with a warm smile as we walked outside of the study together. But we both realised that in attending Oxford, I would attend alone.

                                             **************************************************************************************

 

Do we truly carve our own paths from our actions? Is that power not above us?

Are our lives not defined by the cards of destiny, dealt by the hands of fate?

Or is it simply a matter of chance that we find ourselves where we are.

For I saw my destination clearly.

But was blind to the path that laid ahead.

And tired of the path that strayed behind.

Now who was the one creating philosophies? I mused, walking through Oxford’s walls, the sandstone building towering above me, sending a thrill of excitement through my heart. This was really happening, not a dream or a distant fantasy. It was reality, and one, in which I so duly noted from the expressions of my peers, would not be without ridicule.

They whispered and prattled to their companions of their newfound gossip, as it would seem they had been so wrongly deprived of before my arrival, I noted dryly.

“A woman at Oxford?”

“Surely not…”

“The scandal!”

“The Board cannot be serious in letting a Woman study here!”

“Why it’s unconventional!”

But despite them and their barely contained hostility, I continued to walk through the open grounds without a word, my head held high without the coldness of condescension. For I held true to the belief that no one could ever make you feel inferior without your consent and they certainly did not possess mine.

Everywhere I turned, I was confronted with confused expressions and pointed glares that dismissed my presence with biting words and mocking gibes. I strode purposefully away from the voices and criticising eyes, never once losing my composure. I wanted to be alone so I could hear my own thoughts and not have to swim within the shallow opinionated waters of the male students and professors alike. Perhaps even read my book in blessed silence, I thought wryly, without an accusing eye or caustic remark.

I began to wonder if such a place existed within Oxford’s walls, when my eyes came to rest upon an old oak tree, occupied by no one except a young man whose only company consisted of a few pigeons in which he fed from a brown paper bag. I found myself smiling as I watched him speak to the birds. His dark brown hair neatly combed, revealing sharp yet charismatic features that seemed to soften as he smiled. His attire was immaculate, yet he held a different air about him then the other gentlemen I had encountered thus far. Well at least I hoped this to be the case as I walked closer towards the tree.

Upon hearing my presence, his head turned to face me, and I waited for the disapproving glare, the mocking scowl. Yet, to my utter surprise, it did not arise. His expression was somewhere between astonishment and fascination. I almost blushed at this display as he appraised me, but his momentary awe disappeared. Masked behind what I assumed was an indifferent expression, not cold, but guarded. As if he was wary and did not want to expose the honesty of his reaction.

Interesting, I mused as I approached him. Then his rather striking stormy blue eyes met mine for an instant, his gaze held such intelligence and conveyed such captivation in which his face managed to hide. As if embarrassed, he glanced away, his eyes falling upon the ground as the distance closed between us, and continued to throw more bread crumbs to the pigeons, an action of comfort, I assumed, as he appeared weary of my presence within this small piece of Oxford. His small piece, I realised, as I thought back to the other gentlemen who were always accompanied by fellow colleges as they roamed the grounds. He was the only one I had encountered alone, save for the company of his pigeons.

Hostility I was accustomed to. But apprehension, fascination; that was unexpected and a rather welcome change.

“Excuse me, but may I join you?” I enquired, smiling gently at him, hoping he was as accommodating with me as he was with the pigeons. He looked up at me with knowing eyes as if he could read my thoughts and sense my own apprehension as I awaited his answer.

“Of course,” He replied in a thick accent. Serbian, I thought, but did not dwell upon my assumption, as his warm expression seemed to fade as soon as he had uttered those words as if by speaking he had offended me. I felt saddened by this and wondered how cruel my fellow peers had been for him to behave in this manner. Foreigners were treated with contempt and suspicion, yet to me I found him more interesting because of his heritage.

“Thankyou” I replied smiling “Mr…..” “Tesla,” he replied. “Nikola tesla.” “Mr Tesla. A pleasure.” “The pleasure is mine, I am sure, Miss….” He replied, as I sat down near him. A close yet respectable distance remained between us and his discomfort seemed to ease as we fell into introductions.

“Magnus. Helen Magnus,” I responded without a moment’s hesitation.

“Miss Magnus,” He whispered softly. A smile fell upon my lips and he smiled in return. I held his gaze for but a moment and could see the whirl of emotions, some unreadable yet some so open. His curiosity was bold, clashing with that spark of mischief which danced within his eyes. I felt heat rising in my cheeks and looked down, my eyes drifting away from his and lingering upon the book that I held within my hands.

As neither of us further pursued a conversation after that rather intense moment, I found it perfectly reasonable to resume our somewhat newly found companionship in silence.

“Yes silence, quiet reflection” I thought, suppressing the rising urge to engage in the opposite. This irrational impulse I reasoned was because I had been deprived of any form of decent conversation since I left the company of my Father. But I realised that while this was a logical argument it was not entirely honest.

  Mr Tesla was the first man at Oxford that was not perturbed by a Woman attending the university.

I opened my book, flicking through the pages with care, the words a mere indecipherable blur until my fingers halted. The pages ceased their rapid movement as I found correct page marked by the dried rose. My attention refocused on the works of Darwin rather than caught by Mr Tesla’s gaze.

My eyes scanned over the delicate print that brought the creamy white pages to life and entranced me with its complexity and scientific ingenuity. However half way through my reading I found myself wondering if Mr Tesla studied biology and struggled to stifle my newfound curiosity, As random questions began to formulate within my mind such as whether we would attend classes together that interrupted the normally captivating principles of Natural selection.

Dismissing these thoughts in vain, I tried to concentrate merely on the words but to no avail. In a final effort I started to mouth them as I read, a habit I had found myself doing when I had become surrounded by the unwanted call of distraction. However I found that this particular distraction was not unwanted and that is what made it all the more difficult.

For the first time in my life I found myself disliking my ability to be so captivated with something, or rather someone, new.

Enough, I thought, silencing my wondering mind, allowing myself to be immersed within the words once again. Finding the rhythm in which I had always followed, while the joy of expanding my knowledge was still there. The sense of adventure, the perfect escape was all there just as before. But this time I found no comfort in it.

Sighing quietly to myself, I resumed reading and ignored the lack of comfort, thinking it was easier to move forward then to dwell upon its absence. I was just about to turn the page when I felt a small tug on the hem of my dress. Looking away from my book I found a bold little pigeon that was a soft grey dappled with brown, the lack of vibrant colouration suggested it was a female, who had strayed away from the others in order to obtain my attention.

Despite my self-restraint, I couldn’t help but laugh at this rather endearing display. “If you are after food, I believe I will only disappoint you. Mr Tesla is the one you should address.”

„Zasto se biju,” He exclaimed in his native tongue, addressing the rather rebellious bird in a scolding tone a parent would reserve for a wayward child.

“Your pigeons are rather sociable towards people,” I replied watching him in amusement as the small pigeon continued along as if she had not heard a word he was saying and nor did she take it upon herself to care.

“I find they are only sociable if you have food,” He answered.

“Ah, I understand; A powerful source of motivation.”

“Well, apparently my debonair charm could not win them over, so food was the only alternative.”

“Indeed, your modesty becomes you so well I do not know how they could resist.” I retorted dryly but with good humour, despite the arrogance in which he so clearly displayed.

“One of the more unfortunate mysteries of the universe, don’t you agree?” He responded, grinning.

I rolled my eyes in what I hoped portrayed the irritation I felt and in which that comment surely deserved. But I found myself smiling at his antics. Mr Tesla really was unbelievably incorrigible.

“How we are ever most unfortunate in its ability to elude us” I replied a sarcastic edge in my tone. Yet I felt elated at the exchange of witty remarks that flowed between us.

“Perhaps one day we shall find the answer,” He bantered as if accepting my comment as a verbal challenge.

It seemed I had found myself an equal match in the art of wit. However; I was determined in having the final say.

“Yes perhaps,” I smiled charmingly, “but not today, I’m afraid.”

 “Be still my Serbian heart, for the lady has outwitted me in the battle that is conversation.”

“I assume you withdraw in our game of wits?” I inquired staring straight into his eyes.

“Miss Magnus, there is one thing you must know about me,” He whispered softly, moving closer towards me, his body closing the distance between us ever so slightly. Stormy blue eyes locked onto mine and I could not stare away, almost lost within their depths, almost. “I never give up.”

“Oh really?” I replied derisively, my expression remained calm, despite his close proximity. “I never would have guessed.” I hoped my remark would have rendered him speechless under its polite façade, but Mr Tesla continued to surprise me with his ability to provide an endless stream of witty retorts.

“Well I am glad to have relieved you of your depravation, and I demand a rematch,” He declared dramatically as he moved away, a smirk playing upon his lips.

How, I wondered, can a man be so utterly vexing with his egocentrically driven replies and yet… I smiled to myself, so charming at the same time.

From our brief acquaintance I could not obtain a definitive impression of him, for it seemed he was a man of contradictions. A man of intellect and pride, and yet a man of sincerity, when he so chose to show it. But what intrigued me most of all, was that he was someone who was so much more than he seemed.

“Well then, Mr Tesla, I humbly accept,” I laughed, as his grin softened into a gentle smile. Quite content in his company, for I realised that now, in attending Oxford, ` I was no longer alone.


End file.
